Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Ida T. Heurtze, An Introduction...

Ida T. Heurtze, an introduction.

I thought it would be a good idea to break my promise to talk about my own erotica in this blog, and write an introduction to Ida who approached me to publish her work, given that she lacks both the internet and confidence to do it herself. It would also help to clarify once and for all that we are not one and the same person, especially as Ida is a woman and I am not.

Ida T. Heurtze… Not to be confused with Ida A. Hertze who lives in the Everglades in Florida with her budgie called Cecil (Who she insists on calling Seesil, which is wrong on account of us being English, and therefore right!) and writes travel guides for alligators…

Ida T. Heurtze lives alone with her pet dog Dougal (who she says she has taught to lick… whatever that means…anybody?) and her goat Billy in a smallholding just outside Nark in Scotland, which is a little place full of angry men in skirts and Mel Gibson look-alikes some way north of Watford, which is a little village in England, which for our American friends is a place other than London which we invented to have somewhere for our trains to go.

Ida is celibate apart from the rare occasion that she has sex, and learned everything she knows about physical love from reading Mills and Boone and a man called Hamish McDuff from the Clan McDuff and her Aunt Edith who hated men and lived with a man called Mary.

She inherited her German sounding name from her father who was Scottish and also had a German name. How he came by it nobody knows but it can be certain it wasn’t in a card game because he was very bad at gambling and once lost his way in a bet with an Irishman who got there first.

I receive Ida’s hand written manuscripts in ten page batches neatly wrapped around a brick every Tuesday at 8:30pm, which co-incidentally is when old Bobby McDonald of the Clan McDonald stands outside my house with a bottle of whisky and shouts obscenities at me.

Bobby McDonald is also a Scottish lady like Ida T. Heurtze, although clearly unusual as Scottish ladies go for having a ginger beard, and used to walk around town topless until her nipple rings rusted and forced her to resign her seat in the Houses of Parliament on grounds of metal fatigue.

She came down to England riding a £5 note which he had especially tuned to avoid capture by the Scottish mounted police on their Lambretta scooters!

The highlight of her political career was a record breaking 78 hour political debate with he MP for Little Wallop held during a recess when the rest of parliament were away on holiday, during which she discovered the word willy and ended up being dragged out after breaking into a shouting match with a tour guide and his confused Chinese delegation coming to see London on their way to visit a little place called America they had just bought on the stock market.

Bobby’s Brother Sally had made and lost a fortune in Iceland, investing everything he had in mechanical pleasuring devices for the females of that parish when the economy took a nosedive and the women folk tightened their chastity belts until the men folk took their fingers out and sorted out the mess they’d made of it.

With a van full of worthless products bought at a premium from some bloke called Ann Summers on the internet, Sally, fuelled by alcohol and the desire to get away from it all, drove his van up a glacier and dumped the lot into a crevice. The resulting seismic event caused by 2538 high powered Deadly Donkey vibrators hitting the bottom and suddenly bursting into life caused a dormant volcano to suddenly spring into life and grind Europe’s airspace to a standstill.

The melted plastic mixed in with the ash cloud was deemed too dangerous for delicate jet engines, although the plastic content was hushed up by a scientific community who were convinced they’d be on for a certain Nobel Prize for discovering naturally occurring plastic from the eruption.

With the foreign visitors from the IMF who’d been there to lecture the Icelanders on the ill judged decisions leading to the collapse of their economy grounded, the locals had a brief boost in their economy providing guided tours of the volcano by boat at extortionate prices due to having a captive audience.

At this point I’d like to make clear that rumours I used a gagging order to silence the press from reporting an illicit affair with a fairground goldfish called Daphne are wholly groundless and I can prove beyond question that at the time the alleged incident took place I was in fact rescuing a goat from a mineshaft, which unbeknown to me had been chained to the railway sleeper I threw down said shaft to find out how deep it was. The sight of a distressed goat hurtling toward me in the twilight was quite distressing for me and probably for the goat too! My extensive efforts, over the next five minutes, to retrieve the animal came to nothing. However I maintain that my being there clearly refutes any possibility that I could have been simultaneously in a fairground near Cleethorpes serenading a goldfish called Daphne!

I shall continue typing up the manuscript delivered to me by Ida and ask you to keep following for news of books bearing her name.

Please could you help us identify who has been reading this blog by cutting and pasting the following Tweet…? You are a sick Twat! Your book is brilliant, can I buy a copy? …and send it to the Twitter account @NeilWinnington

…and then having proven that you are willing to blindly follow instructions given by an idiot, report to General Compton Smyth who is recruiting for a rapid response suicide squad to retake the town of Grimsby after reports came in to the Ministry Of Defense of a Viking hoard invading as recently as January 8th 1027!

Please remember to check out the links below, and do leave a review after reading one of my books, thanks.

Religious Pursuits
By Neil Winnington
A comedy novel in the Tom Sharpe mould, with a sleepy Devon Village facing a media frenzy as a combination of lies and incompetence leads to a media frenzy and the paperazzi descend on the unwitting locals...
ISBN 1470071347
Available now in Paperback from...

Wicked Perspective
By N.J. Winnington
ISBN-10: 1484818709
ISBN-13: 978-1484818701
A collection of short Erotic Stories to give you a quick thrill with the one common theme that they put you in the role of the girl at the centre of the story

Available in both Paperback and Kindle from;


Ages Of Sin
By N.J. Winnington
A collection of short erotic stories exploring the theme of age differences with bonus material and a few surprises.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Emily's Star

Emily's Star

To understand Neil Winnington the author, I guess it helps to know a little more about Neil Winnington the person. A big part of my life will always be the pain caused by the abduction of my daughter Emily. I campaign to raise awareness about the issue of parental child abduction to help other parents going through this, but today is one of those difficult times of the year, May 24th 2008 I took Emily to the beach for the first time, and did a video that would go on to be the inspiration for a song dedicated to Emily with a message to her in the lyrics, and here's a link to see it for yourselves...

Emily's abduction didn't just effect me of course, and no-one was more devastated than my Mother who was dying with bowel cancer. One of the last things she made me promise was never to give up until I brought her Grandaughter home. In January 2009 Mum finally lost her fight with cancer, and I wanted to find a way of explaining to Emily where her Grandmother had gone if she did come home, so I wrote a poem, and this is more relevant than ever now because a wonderful animator called Sasha Dale is to start work on turning that poem into an animation, and I shall be helping with the crowdfunding project to make this happen.

You can find out more about Sasha by following her at and on Twitter @Sasha_Dale but for now I am going to share with you the blog I posted on Reverbnation to explain the story behind the poem, and then I shall share the poem itself with you, and Sasha and I are contemplating publishing a picture book using stills from the animation as well, so please do leave your comments below...

Emily’s Star-The Story Behind a Poem
Neil Winnington

Emily was abducted on September 28th 2008, she was two and a half at the time.

Her Mother had threatened to abduct her and ensure she would never see or hear from her father again unless I agreed to pay “Enough money for me to live like a queen in Russia” in which case he would be allowed two weeks holiday time with Emily. This was after I refused to pretend our marriage was ok so she could renew her visa and continue the affair she had been enjoying behind my back with a soldier, who, it turned out later, had something of a reputation for targeting married women as sport, breaking up marriages and dumping them.

I found out about the affair three days after Emily’s 2nd birthday, when my suspicions reached a new high when her mother insisted on going to have drinks with “friends” after work, and didn’t return until 2am, drunk and dishevelled. Emily had cried herself to sleep that night, after bringing me my shoes, pictures of her mother and pointing at the door. I had a good idea what was happening, but seeing Emily that night broke my heart more than even what her Mother was doing. When her mother confessed it was with a big smile on her face, even laughing as she relished my tears, and insisted on giving me extremely graphic details of her infidelity.

Emily was my whole world, I’d always wanted to be a father, so her Mother putting her affair before Emily made me fear for her future. On one occasion I got a text at work saying her boyfriend was on leave and Emily would be alone in the house unless I dropped everything and went home to her. This set the pattern for events over the next few months, with Emily’s mother disappearing for days at a time when he was on leave, and me clinging on to my job. The whole situation was made worse because Emily’s mother refused to move out of the house I was renting, and she was taking every opportunity to make my life hell, even trying to get me to commit suicide at one point, remembering something I’d said as a statement of love when Emily was newborn, that “if I ever lost you and Emily, life wouldn’t be worth living.” She was nothing if not expert at manipulating and twisting something you say, editing it to her convenience and throwing it back in your face.

While all this was going on the court case trying to block Emily being taken out of the UK was not going well. Without legal aid I was trying to fight the case at first without legal help, her mother ensuring I got very little sleep for as much as two weeks before every hearing so I would appear desperate, neurotic and emotional… it worked. From the first hearing, when the judge said he was sure the threats to abduct Emily was merely words said in anger, the tone was set. I was even threatened with contempt of court at one point for using the word abduction, and when Emily’s mother lied in her statement and in court, evidence I had to prove it was refused as irrelevant. In the end I was seen as a neurotic obstruction to a simple settlement and with assurances from Emily’s Mother that I would be granted joint custody and Emily staying with me upon their return if I consented to her taking Emily to Russia for an eight week “Holiday” to see her Russian relatives. It was made clear to me by the Cafcass officer dealing with the case that the judge would see that Emily’s mother had compromised a lot to come up with a generous offer, and me objecting when a court order protecting Emily by insisting on her return, would not look good, and would probably go against me. The biggest mistake of my life, was bowing to this pressure.

So Emily was taken, and that last night before her mother and her boyfriend came to take her (Yes, I wasn’t even allowed to see her off at the airport) Emily slept next to me her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I don’t know if she knew what was happening, my tears before we fell asleep might have been a factor, Emily always gave me a hug and kiss when I cried. But her mother let herself into the house, and Emily was pulled from me still waking. I gave her the little toy dog I’d bought her on the day (As seen in the Inspiration video for Emily’s Song) I took her to see the sea for the first time, which she never let out of her sight. I later found it had been thrown under the stairs when I wasn’t looking. So the last memory of my little girl is through the back window of another mans car, straining to wave at me…

It became quickly apparent from the hatred spat down the phone at me by her Mother, and the constant excuses why I couldn’t come to Russia, such as a refusal to give me a letter of consent required to allow Emily to fly back with me, that her mother was going to carry out her threats. Before Emily was gone my mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and the date on the court order demanding Emily’s return came and went after an excuse from her mother that she was ill and unable to travel was sent to the court. Mum was allowed home for the very last time from the hospice on Christmas Day. I tried several time to phone Russia so she could hear Emily’s voice one last time, but the phone was never answered. Less than a month later my mother died, her heart broken. She had made me promise not to give up until her beautiful granddaughter was safely home gripping my hand tightly.

The courts dragged their heels for another six months, with letters with excuses flowed from Russia like confetti, and in April her mother had the brass neck to come for a 2 week sex holiday paid for by her boyfriend, minus Emily. I know this because they turned up at my house to collect possessions. I called the police, and while they were made to wait outside I showed the court order demanding Emily’s return. It was a Friday, and I was told to allow her to collect clothes, and that no arrest could be made without guidance from the court. Her mother took her chance to grab one of my wage slips, which she used to claim half my wages upon her return to Russia for maintainence (which would have cost me the house I was renting, and to give you an idea of the scale of this effort, the average wage in her part of Russia is £50 a month.). In the end my willingness or otherwise was irrelevant because I was made redundant that May, before this Russian court case took place.

By that December I had lost the rented house, all my possessions, and my car, yet still had £10,000+ of debts, no job and no legal aid. Deep in depression and suffering a complete nervous breakdown did nothing to help my situation, and I reached my very lowest point. I wont go into the graphic details, but I found myself with a knife in one hand and my sleeves rolled up, and the phone by my other hand sat against a wall at my fathers house. I decided to try a phone call to Reunite International. I don’t know the name of the man on the helpline that night, but suffice to say he was so determined to get things moving with the FCO that he unwittingly saved my life.

A wonderful lady from the child abduction section at the FCO called me out of the blue, and after several more months of delays and excuses by Emily’s mother, a consular visit told me Emily was looking well and seemed to be happy. Her mother had refused all contact by now, and this was my last proof to this day that Emily was even alive. A change in government here led to a slight improvement in the intervention the child abduction section at the FCO were allowed to take, which proved vital as Emily’s mother now went back to the courts there sighting my “refusal” to pay the £500 a month demanded as proof enough to have me stripped of my parental rights. She did of course know I had lost my job, and without the money to pay a Russian lawyer I struggled with a little help from the FCO to state my case, to no avail. Soon after my saviour at the FCO suddenly told me she was taking early retirement, which I put down to the well publicised cuts. Now my calls to the FCO brought the old “You need to hire a Russian lawyer” line that told me any hope of government assistance was gone.

Fighting my way out of depression and the constant nightmares and guilt that stop me sleeping properly to this day, I have bounced from part-time job to part time job, but a chance conversation with singer/songwriter Doris Brendel led to Emily’s Song. I wanted to send a message to Emily, so wrote lyrics based around that special day at the beach, and Doris wrote the song. It was Doris who first suggested we use the song to raise money for charity, and remembering that moment when a phone call saved me Reunite International was an easy choice. She organised the musicians, and singer Sam Blue took time out from touring with Dizzie Rascal to provide the vocals.

The song became a focal point for me to campaign to raise awareness about parental child abduction, as I became more and more aware of the sheer numbers involved and determined that if I could save just one child and parent from this nightmare I could live with myself a little more. I had been a TV producer years before I met Emily’s mother, so knew my knowledge of how the media works would give me an advantage other parents might lack in being able to raise the profile of the issue. Unfortunately, to date, the poor sales of Emily’s Song and lack of response from the media and public has shown me that there is a general assumption that this is nothing more than a domestic issue across borders. With a general attitude fostered by both press and governments against immigration in general adding to this sympathy for these vulnerable children is at a pitiful low. I shall never stop the fight, but know I am up against the tide of opinion held by most.

As part of my self diagnosed therapy I started writing again. I have a novel ready to be published, and started writing more song lyrics, and poems that I might have written for Emily were she still here with me. The best of those so far is Emily’s Star. My intention was to find a way to explain to Emily about my mother passing away that wouldn’t distress her. I remember when we used to go to the car at night in winter that we’d always pause as Emily pointed up to the sky saying “Stars!” so the die was cast, and the poem flowed from that.

As an optimistic post script to this tale, I returned to film making scripting and directing a music video for Doris Brendel. “Going Out” is a single on her new album released on July 1st 2012 and Stewart Addison, the cameraman/editor invited me to join his collective of film makers at Film Division. Hopefully other record labels will give me commissions to direct mor music videos for their artists, and the fight to clear my debts and return to the Russian courts to see my Emily can begin again. Meantime I fight the nightmares, depression and guilt by continuing to campaign in the hope that public opinion will change and make governments around the World value their most vulnerable citizens as highly as their adults. It’s ironic that if it were me and not my more precious daughter who was abducted there would be both a public and media outcry for action and the Foreign Secretary working behind the scenes to get me home safely. At least 2000 British children have been abducted since Emily, many of the stories I’ve heard mirror my own, and yet no-one even talks about society’s forgotten children.

Today (Friday 7th June) I went to see My local MP Alison McGovern, having been warned by her office staff previously that she wouldn't get involved I went fearing the worst, but when I explained that my campaign isn't just about Emily, but about raising awareness and working to help preventing other cases like Emily she was very helpful, and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. It is important to remember that Emily and the other abducted children are very much British citizens, and should be awarded all the rights and protections we all benefit from... These are not just domestic legal cases... If your car is stolen and taken abroad you do not expect to have to go to a foreign court to explain that the car was stolen... If an oil worker is abducted by terrorists there is a media outcry... Over 2000 British children have been illegally abducted by a parent or guardian in the five years since Emily, and no-one talks about it... Now is the time to remember every single one!

Someday I WILL write a book based on the entire story of what happened to Emily, but even five years on it is too painful right now for me to live that nightmare in such detail.

...and now the poem...

Emily's Star
By Neil Winnington

Stood at her window as bedtime draws near,
Emily stares at the sky, which is clear,

"Why are those magical stars in the sky?"
She asks her old Daddy, who always knows why

"That's where the angels have turned on a light,
To watch over children asleep through the night,"

"So how do the angels know who they should see?
And what if an angel forgets about me?"

Daddy just smiles, as all Daddy's do.
"Each child has an angel, and there's one for you!"

"I have my own angel?" she asks in surprise!
"Why yes, from your bedtime, right through to sunrise."

"So how can an angel see through my curtain?"
"Oh angels use magic, of that I'm certain."

"So what if a monster, with fur that is red,
Comes out to eat me from under my bed?"

"Well I check for monsters, at least every day,
And the angel and me, we just chase them away!"

"Can we leave a gift for my angel to find?
Or would they forget it and leave it behind?"

"Angels get a heavenly gift in the morning,
If children go straight to bed, without warning."

"So my angel gets presents if I go to bed?"
"Well that's what your Grandmother had always said."

"I miss seeing Nanna, now she is gone,"
Daddy just points where the brightest star shone

"Look Emily, Nanna has turned on her light,
It's Nanna who'll watch you asleep through the night."

"My Nanna's an angel, and that's her new place?"
Emily wipes all the tears from her face.

"Why yes, and she kisses you as daylight breaks,
And flies back to heaven before you're awake."

But our little Emily makes not a peep,
She's waiting for Nanna, She's fallen asleep!

I hope you will agree it was the best way possible to explain my mother's passing away with a nice positive story...

I have written other poems as well as other song lyrics, and I may in future publish a book of children's poetry. Emily's Star is simply more personal, yet also seems to strike a cord with a lot of people.

Next time I shall delve into my darker side and tell you a little of the background to my latest book of eroticacacacaca haha. Until then please ask friends to Google Search Emily's Song by Sam Blue, support our crowdfunding project to make the animation of Emily's Star a reality and do check out my books at ...better still buy one... buy all three, and one way or another you are certain to have a smile on your face!

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Welcome to my new blog... This is a new World to me, so please forgive me if it seems to be lacking in some way.

I am an author, but I cover many genres, the common theme being my desire to share a story, and that is how my writing began. Ultimately I always wondered if I was capable of writing more than merely a short story... well there was only one way to find out, so I sat down with an idea for a comedy novel.

It started with a basic story line, and a list of characters that I always seemed to find in every village I've been to anywhere in the World, but I wanted to give my characters a back story to make them interesting, so my village gossip Eva got a back story which was also a homage to my favourite author Tom Sharpe.

As Religious Pursuits developed some of the peripheral characters like Eva became too much fun to leave on the sidelines, so I weaved in several sub-plots which complicated the story somewhat, but made the book even funnier...

...So many months later the first novel was finished, and I declared myself satisfied, letting a few friends and family members read the book... but they all pestered me to publish it!

Unfortunately literary agents were less enthusiastic, and without an agent you can't get published, because publishers don't want unsolicited manuscripts from every budding author, and it seemed like I was to be thwarted until I came up with a different story for them.

Then someone told me about Createspace, and I won't bore you with the details, but a month ago Religious Pursuits was finally published as a paperback (Albeit with a temporary cover design... snap these limited first edition covers up because these will be the collectable ones) and here's the link...

So now some of you are wondering how a writer of comedy novels came to also publish smut books? Well I won't pretend to be a saint... far from it, I have probably experienced more than most, and I have devoted my adult life to learning as many techniques for pleasing girls as I could find, and developed a few of my own.

Being divorced and thus single again means that I no longer feel the need to hide my love of sex, but it has also made some of my bolder female friends request that I write some erotic stories for them... This had been going on for a number of years, with word of mouth spreading...

One of my friends suggested that my stories were so good that I ought to publish them, and given that Erotica is the hottest literary genre at the moment I'd be a fool just to sell my novels. Well as much to please my friends as anything I did indeed publish a selection of erotic stories in my 2nd book Wicked Perspectives, which featured a selection of stories putting you, the reader, right in the story. (UK) (US)

And very very soon I shall be announcing my new erotic collection called Ages of Sin, which explores the taboo for many of older men with younger women and vice versa.

So as an introduction to my work, here's a little treat... the first few chapters of Religious Pursuits, to whet your appetite...
It's set in a sleepy village in Devon in the 1970's...

Religious Pursuits
Copyright © 2012 Neil Winnington
All rights reserved.


“It’s nearly eleven, Dibble, aren’t you finished with that paperwork yet?”
“Only fourteen pages or so yet Serg!”
“Fourteen? ... Fourteen poxy pages?  It’s unnatural y’know.  A spotty young PC like yourself LOVING paperwork.  It was unheard of in my day.  In my d ...”
“...With all due respect sir.  Your day is almost over.” Dibble replied.

Goode thought seriously about cuffing the little idiot around the ear for that.  His impending retirement, in but three months time was being soured by the thought that this, this pillock was to replace him, only made worse when he reminded Goode of the fact.

Still, Goode could at least take this opportunity to leave early and visit Mrs Hughes at the Ferret and Duck somewhat earlier than usual. Yes indeed, her ample breasts and obliging nature had a rather magnetic effect on the Sergeant. Quite why her ex-husband ran off with that anorexic waif escaped him, but then he wasn’t complaining.

“...Right then, I’m off to check the pub closing and you can stay with your paperwork.  Close up when you’re done.”
“OK Sir.”

And with that Goode left Dibble to his beloved paperwork. Taking his usual route round the back of the village he made off. He was under no illusions that most of the village populace knew about his nocturnal visits to Mrs Hughes via the back door, but as these visits often coincided with the pub staying open into the early hours, no-one was stupid enough to comment.

All the same with the new P.C. around it was best not to take chances. Dibble lost any potential trust when he refused a drink from Mrs Hughes on his first day, “Not whilst I’m on duty, thank you!”

In fact it was a matter of some debate within the Ferret and Duck as to whether Dibble tucked his shirt into his underpants. Young Gwen had been dispatched to find out, only to raise a new debate over whether he was gay when he turned her down - Gwen, for God’s Sake! Every man in the village had enjoyed Gwen’s talents, and she was quite a looker! The poor kid was so confused with the rejection that Dibble suddenly became the object of an obsession for her. Trying to seduce him at every opportunity and ignoring advances from any other men. Yes, Dibble had completely screwed up the natural order within a few weeks of arriving in the village.

Goodes train of thought was disturbed upon seeing the Reverend walking towards the church at this time of night.
“Evening Reverend!”  Bellowed the Sergeant, “Strange time o’night t’be out isn’t it?”

“Oh, er, evening Sergeant. Er, y’yes, erm, I’m just checking if I’d remembered to lock up the church.” replied the priest nervously.

“Can’t be too careful I s’pose, but you should be alright around here.”
“All the same...”
“I could come with you if you like,” offered Goode.
“NO!, no. No thank you officer, I’ll be fine on my own.”
…and with that they parted.

“What was that?” asked Roger Smith; “Your husband hasn’t come back has he? It was bloody cold waiting in the garden for him to leave.”
“Sh, I’m just looking! No he’s just talking to the policeman.” replied the Vicar’s wife as she closed the curtains to again. “He’s going now. Maybe this is a bad idea, I feel terribly guilty, Roger. He’s always been good to me...”
“Calm down, darling, you only married him because he was nice to you...“
“Yes, but...”
“Yes, but nothing. He only married you because he felt sorry for you.  A young girl like you has natural needs. We’re not doing anything wrong.” Having had his illicit meeting with the reverends wife interrupted the randy shop keeper was trying to calm down his latest conquest. At this rate he’d never get her knickers off!
“How can you say that?” blurted the young wife, bursting into tears.

“Carrie, Carrie. You know I love you... we’re in love aren’t we?” Purred Roger, using whatever came into his head to achieve his goal, eventually calming her enough to stop pushing him away.
“Are you sure?” She asked, seeking reassurance.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure” responded Roger, losing composure slightly within sight of his goal.

The chance meeting between religious and policing leaders in the village disturbed others too. Not waiting to find out if it was her cheating husband returning from another attempt at the Vicar’s young wife, Sarah Smith, had hurriedly ushered her lover out. Although his method of escape was well rehearsed via the back window, the rose bush that provided a soft landing hadn’t been under the window he’d previously used in less hurried circumstances. His yell was loud enough to set curtains twitching along the lane at the front of the house.

“What was that, Roger?” yelled Carrie.
“I, er, don’t know. Probably nothing, come here.”
“Get off me! You’ll have to go. It’s no good!” she panicked. “Get out!!!”

With that Roger gathered his clothes and made his exit via the rear of the cottage, cursing his rotten luck. This was the closest he’d got to breaking down his most challenging conquest yet. It would certainly be a most satisfying notch on his headboard if he could break her in. Damn, so close as well! Certainly Roger had left a fair few broken hearts and occasional marriages in his ruthless wake.

The Reverend had by now made his way up to and past the church, wracked with guilt before even reaching his destination. Rather than the church, he was heading for Ned Driscoe’s cottage. Ned was the local poacher, although it was not in pursuit of illicit game that the Reverend was visiting. It was more Ned’s dubious distilling that Rev Green found irresistible.

This avenue of supply had arisen after the Reverend’s first Christmas in the village, when he’d mentioned in passing his delight in a good malt whisky one evening in the Ferret and Duck and had immediately endeared himself to the old poacher. So the gift of a strangely unlabelled bottle of the smoothest whisky the Reverend had experienced seemed to strike up a bond between them which seemed quite unnatural to those comparing their separate professions, or even age! Ned even made occasional effort to attend the Sunday morning service, a feat no other Vicar had achieved in the previous fifty years. This in itself generated a mystique and genuine fondness for the priest, which became almost universal.

All the same, Reverend Green couldn’t easily reconcile his guilt getting illegal alcohol from the old man. Even drunk in moderation, the almost Irish smoothness of Ned’s Brew was irresistible. Bumping into Goode merely brought extra weight to his guilty shoulders, as he sloped into Ned’s cottage like a naughty schoolboy.

“Evening’ Vicar!” offered Ned, “ Tis a fine, fine brew this time. Old Nelly’s really excelled ‘ersel’ this time!”

Nelly was Ned’s affectionate name for his modified central heating boiler, decorated by curls of copper piping that seemed to run aimlessly around before reaching a tap. And Nelly had indeed excelled herself this time, and one sip quickly dispelled the Reverend’s guilt.
“Pure nectar, Ned” replied the Reverend, “pure nectar!”

At the back of the Ferret and Duck, Mrs Hughes reluctantly allowed the Sergeant in.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you!” She said coldly.
“Why, what’ve I done?” asked the bemused Sergeant.
“That Dibble made me close on time three times last week. He wouldn’t even have a drink!”
“Well, that’s not my fault.”
“You sent him out.”
“Yes, but it would have made him suspicious if I’d insisted every time. Besides you’ll have to get used to him when I retire!”
“And I’m sure he fancies me!” retorted Mrs Hughes, trying jealousy as a new tack.
“So there’s hope for the little shit after all!” came the humoured response.
“Well don’t expect to stay with me tonight!” her curt reply wiping the smile off Goode’s face.
“Aw, come on!”
“No, you’d better leave!” And with that she made for the cellar.

Goode grabbed her arm, but Helen Broke free, tripped and disappeared into the darkness. The rotund policeman stumbled down after her, groping around for a while for a light switch before finding the cord which served the purpose.

What met his eyes gave him a cold chill. Mrs Hughes was still, very still, apart from the trickle of blood leaving her mouth. Closer checks confirmed his fears. Fears led to blind panic! He couldn’t be here, couldn’t explain it, and as though someone had flicked a switch of fate, panic led Goode to turn a simple accident into something that would affect his whole life. His fat legs struggled to get him through the door. A nail protruding from the frame tried, like the hand of sanity, to hold him back. Only a piece of his police jacket decided to accept the advice, the rest, minus a patch from its shoulder, left with the wearer.

The rest of the evening went like a haze. His footsteps along the deserted country road seemed to adopt the volume of thunder, his heart beating even louder. The sheep ripping grass took on the sinister form of witnesses on a night he wanted to disappear. Upon reaching his cottage a bottle of whisky provided the magic required to dim the memory.


Goode awoke with a loud banging in his head and as he groggily regained consciousness the banging seemed to take on an out of body form. The mist slowly cleared from his eyes to reveal the familiar room, comfortably cluttered with old newspapers and a collection of Whisky bottles. And the banging began again, this time from the window. Unfortunately there was a face connected to the noise.
“Dibble! You little shit!” bellowed the Sergeant.

He staggered to the front door, grabbing an empty bottle on the way.
“This had better be good, Dibble!”
“It is sir”, replied the young P.C. tripping over a large plant pot, “I mean it isn’t... I mean, its MURDER sir!”

Goode’s face momentarily went stony white, as memories - previously cloudy - of the night before flooded back. “M...Murder?”
“Yes a murder! At last something happening in this dump!”

Goode’s face was now red, rapidly approaching purple, but Dibble was too carried away to stop. “Yes, Mrs Hughes.”
“Murder? She f...” Goode began before catching himself. “Isn’t it too early to tell?”

Once again, Dibble was too excited to query how come the Sergeant was so well informed.  In fact he had only just started to notice the rage on Goode’s face. This puzzled him, surely he should be pleased that something was happening at last.
“I’ll cordon off the area and look for clues.” Dibble offered helpfully.
“Give me strength. And what’s the bloody time?”
“Five-thirty, Sir... S ssir?”
This was the switch that blew the fuse.
“You woke me up at five, bloody thirty in the effing morning for some cock and bull murder story, when the so-called victim fell down, I mean PROBABLY had an accident!!!”
“Y-yes, Sir.” Dibble replied, slowly starting to walk backwards, as even he realised how angry Goode was getting.
“Get... Get out of my sight, DIBBLE!” Goode was now utterly furious.
“You’re angry, Sir, aren’t you? ...Sir!...” Dibble stopped walking, as Goode raised the empty bottle above his head menacingly, and gathered a plant pot in his other hand to add to his arsenal. “Now Sir! ...Put that down, Sir. You could do someone an injury wi’...”

Dibble ducked just in time to avoid the plant pot hurtling towards him.  He quickly made for the gate, and then ran down the lane with various earthenware objects crashing behind him.
“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!” Goode screamed after him.
“I’ll, ouch! ...Start the investigation on my own shall I?”  Dibble called back, but didn’t wait for an answer, deciding to leave the Sergeant to cool off on his own.

The Sergeant decided to prepare himself for the day with a stiff drink. Oh God, this was turning into a disaster!

Dibble made his way quickly back to the village. At last there was some action in this God forsaken backwater. He never understood why Uncle Cedric had had him transferred down here. He’d be far more use to him at the Met in London, but this was his real chance to catch a killer. There MUST be a killer. It stood to reason with a murder. Maybe this was what Uncle Cedric had in mind, for Dibble to come and shake up this place. And golly, he was going to do it. He’d have to improvise of course. That police station had no forensic equipment and time was of the essence, clues must be found and quick!

Dave, the barman had stayed overnight after the unfortunate Mrs Hughes was taken away in the ambulance. He was desperate to clear up for lunchtime, but Dibble had insisted everything was left exactly the way it was. This seemed a good idea in itself, as a sign of respect and all that, but Helen wouldn’t have wanted this mess.

There’d be a real murder though if Ned and the others couldn’t have a drink, and who’d get the blame for that? Yes, Dave would be happy when Sergeant Goode finally gets down here to take charge.

Goode was indeed on his way down already. His whole world seemed to be falling apart around him. It was bad enough having one outsider, in the form of Dibble, ruin the status quo, but with Dibbles’ insistence that there’d been a murder there’d be other outsiders sticking their beaks in, unless...

Unless he could make it all go away, but the only person who could prove it was an accident was Goode... So he’d need to find a suspect so unbelievable that it would fall down in court! Thirty years ago it would have gone away without even the next village being involved. Chipping Attwell had been such an idyllic place before...

Goode’s train of thought came to an abrupt end when he rounded the corner to be confronted with a vision from hell which confirmed all his darkest fears about Dibbles’ influence. Outside the Ferret and Duck was a small crowd. The regular drinkers headed by Ned, of course, but also the scandal merchants looking for some juicy morsels.

“Sere’s been a murter you know!” Called Miss Compton-Snort in her strangely Anglo-German accent on seeing the Sergeant approach.

The villagers still knew very little about the old lady with the three diarrhoetic Yorkshire Terriers. They put her strange accent down to her coming from the South East Coast. Nothing normal ever came from there! She always seemed to appear when there was some kind of scandal to investigate, but slipped away just as mysteriously when there wasn’t.  She was always the outsider within in spite of living here for over forty years longer than most of the scandal makers had been alive, and only Ned had been rumoured to get really close, some years back, passionately close, some say.

“Miss Compton-Snort. We have no proof of anything yet!” Retorted Goode.
“Well, that’s what your young man seems to sink!” The old lady corrected him.

Once through the crowd Goode could see the full horror of Dibble’s handiwork. Dave was outside, apologising and trying to calm the regulars down. The door was open, but the entrance was cordoned off with toilet paper and parcel tape. The old oak posts and beams in the passageway leading to the bar were covered with a white power, which smelled like... “TALCUM POWDER!” Goode bellowed, before turning to clear the crowd in case there was another ‘Murder’ to witness!

“Could everyone please go home, there is nothing to see!” Goode almost choked on his words, as Dibble had patently made sure there was plenty to see!
“But, sere’s been a murter!” Eva insisted.
“We have no proof of that. Now can you all go home please?”
“Parton?” Eva asked pathetically, putting a hand to her ear.

The deaf old lady card was a useful ploy Miss Compton-Snort had perfected to avoid being diverted off the scent of a scandal.
“Oi want moi drink.” Ned piped up.
“Not today, Ned.” Goode said firmly.
“But nothing. Come on everyone, go home!” Goode insisted, as the crowd slowly dispersed.
“Serge!” Dibble called enthusiastically from somewhere inside. “You’re here, at last! I’ve had to improvise in the absence of proper forensics...” it was then that Dibble finally saw the reddening of Goodes face. “Serge?”
“DIBBLE!  What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“Investigating a murd... Sergeant are you feeling well? Your face is turning purple again.”
“Dibble, you little shit!”

By now the crowd had returned in greater numbers as Goode surveyed Dibbles handiwork with ever growing levels of disbelief.
“Take that toilet paper down. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
The crowd squeezed into the doorway and turned to Dibble for what must be an amusing answer.
“Clues, sir!” Dibble beamed proudly.
“…and the toilet paper?” Goode quipped, “enlighten me.”
“To cordon off the crime scene whilst I dust for finger prints.”
“Finger prints, eh? Find any?”
“Yes, sir, lots!”
“You would, you pratt, it’s a bleeding pub!”
The crowd laughed.

Goode pushed through the toilet paper and walked through to the bar. The scene, which met his eyes nearly, took his breath away. Every chair, every table, the bar, the brasses on the ceiling, all covered in talcum powder just as Dibble was. Dave looked ready to cry.

“Dibble, help clean this place up so that Dave can open up.” Goode snapped. “Then clean yourself up.”
“But Sergeant!” Dibble pleaded.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Now, Dave, where was the accident?”
“Murder, Sir!” corrected Dibble.
“The accident, Dave?”
“Through here.”

Goode knew very well, except now there was talcum powder everywhere.
“Fingerprints, Sir.”

Goode hit him over the head with a conveniently situated newspaper.
“Right, Dave. Try to keep out of here as best you can.” Goode told the barman, before turning to his impetuous colleague. “Dibble! ...What have you found here that could prove more than an accident?”
“Signs of a struggle up here...” Dibble correctly surmised.

Goode knew damn well there was a struggle, but was momentarily set back to see how much had been knocked over. Coats, a lamp and both a mirror and picture set askew.
“Couldn’t Helen have caused this as she slipped?” queried Goode.

Dibble gave a look of contempt at the sergeants’ familiarity with a civilian, a dead one at that!
“Doubt it! Besides there’s some material caught on a nail down there... Actually you seem to have a rip in your tunic, sir, let me just...”

“Stop that you pratt! Next you’ll be calling ME a suspect! I see no proof here at all. Helen slipped, it’s as simple as that...” Goode argued, dismissing everything Dibble had found.

“ ...Uncle Cedric didn’t...” Dibble muttered.
“Uncle Cedric? You bothered your Uncle Cedric with this?”
“Who’s Uncle Cedric?” interrupted Dave.
“Shut up!” Goode snapped.

Dave was surprised at the sergeants’ sharp retort. But Goode's attention had already turned to Dibble.
“You called the head of CID in Scotland Yard over an accident?”
“A murder...!”
“An accident, you idiot!”
“Well Uncle Cedric didn’t think so. He’s sending a proper forensic team from Great Yarbington over.”
“Townies, Sir? ...But I’m a...”
“Get out of my sight, and clean up the mess you made of that bar!”

And with that Goode stormed out of the pub, through the crowd, and headed for the Police Station. The idiot would have the army down here next! A prophetic thought as events were to unfold.


Cedric Rathbone was gloomy, but the advantage of his position was that he could make those around him gloomy too!
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”
“Ah, Spencer, yes. Remember my dim-witted nephew?”
“P.C. Dibble wasn’t it, Sir?”
“That’s the one, Spencer.  P.C. Dibble... and didn’t I tell you to transfer him somewhere so remote, so inaccessible that he couldn’t get into mischief or cause me further problems?”
“Yes, Sir. We transferred him to some village in the West Country ...Why Sir?”
“Oh!  It wasn’t him by any chance was it?” Quipped Spencer, knowing Rathbone despised the brat.
“I should be so bloody lucky! Get onto Great Yarbington CID. Scare the bloody shit out of them and tell them to sort it out! Quickly!”

Spencer departed briskly, just as Superintendent Rathbone’s secretary beeped through to his desk.
“Yes, Kate?”
“Your sister on line two, as you requested, sir.”
“Thank-you, Kate, put her through.”
“Hello, Cedric.” Margaret was panicking. “Is it Archibald? Has he been hurt?”
“I wish!” Rathbone let slip.
“That’s a horrid thing to say! He’s your nephew!”
“No, THAT’S a horrid thing to say?”
“What’s happened to him?”
“Does the boy actually listen to you, Margaret?” Rathbone asked, “I often wonder, because he never seems to listen to anyone else.”
“He listens to you, Cedric.” Margaret replied. “He worships you! He joined the police force to follow...”
“...Me! Yes I know all that...” Rathbone sighed having heard this story many times.
“...and then you got him transferred to a remote backwater!”
“Not me Margaret, it was... out of my hands, but I did want to talk to you about that. You see he’s stirring up something of a hornets’ nest down there. Making noise... and dragging me into it all. Phoning me at work, and I’m a busy man!”
“Well, that’s what you’re there for, Cedric. After all, you pulled the strings so he could join up, even when he failed the tests.”
“Quiet sis! That’s, ahem, something of a delicate matter! Besides, the boy should start to stand on his own two feet now.”
“Yes, but...”
“…but nothing, Margaret. Can’t you have a teensy word and stop him botheri... er, coming to me all the time?”
“Well I suppose so, but...”
“...Many thanks… got to go. Bye!”
Spencer smiled, “Helped that cretin when he failed the tests, eh? Thanks, Kate.”
“Please, John, I’ll be sacked!” Kate pleaded.
“Don’t worry darling! Would I let anything happen to you? Of course not. See you later.  I’ll pick you up around eight...”
“But, John!”

John had gone. Had he been prepared, he could have got all that on tape. A nice little security net in this most political of departments. Right now though it would be more useful kept to this to himself. Besides, Spencer was about to revel in the chance to make someone else jump.

Sitting at his desk he punched up the details for Great Yarbington. Phone number?  Check! Anything interesting on the staff files? Oh yes, yes, yes, yes! The head of CID has strong, religious links. Transferred from Bristol for committing a violent act against an atheist hippie, charges were dropped, but.... oh yes!!!
…Time for a phone call.
“Hello, could I speak to DS Althop pleases? It’s DCI Spencer at Scotland Yard.”
“DS Althop. How can I help you?”
“Ah, Ted! May I call you Ted?”
“Err... yes, OK....!”
“Good, good! A rather delicate matter in your patch has come to our attention... a murder!”
“A murder? A murder! ...How come I haven’t heard about this?”
“We have our sources… everywhere! Anyhow, we want this checked out. Investigated properly. Discreetly. To make sure our information is correct.”
“I see... why so hush, hush.”
“There’s a possibility that this could be the work of a religious sect. We don’t want to alert them to the fact we’ve made the connection - you understand don’t you?”
“Oh yes, yes indeed.”

Spencer told Ted all about the case. Well in so much that he told him as little as possible, Althop did the rest, grabbing one of his subordinates, and hot-shoeing it towards Chipping Attwell.

Miss Compton-Snort was frustrated. She never felt totally comfortable unless armed with all the facts available. This called for drastic measures. Baking! She never made great claims for her culinary ability - she hated doing it! But in times of crisis it was a necessity and the chocolate muffins were ready! Carefully placing them in an old biscuit tin, she gathered the dogs together, and headed for the police station. Bumping into Ned before she’d got beyond her gate.

“Been bakin’, me Darlin’? Anything for moi?” Ned teased.
“Cetaintly not! Ant don’t be so familiar.”
“Now, you wouldn’t have said that twenty-odd years back, would ee?”
“I don’t care to remember.”
“So moi do oi see a smile creeping onto your face then?”
“I don’t know what you mean, pleass leaf me alone!”
“Oh, oi love that German accent!”
“Shh! You promised...!”
“Oi did, didn’t oi.”
“Come on darlinks.”
“Why, where are we goin’?”
“Not you, you horrit man!”
Ned just laughed as she strutted off.

In spite of her frosty reaction to Ned, Eva felt closer to him than anyone else. Certainly it had been quite frightening to her, the way he had got her to confide in him during their brief affair all those years ago. It was admirable to one with her training the way Ned had so easily disarmed her natural reluctance to confide in anyone about her past, something which could still be dangerous. Rough around the edges he may be, but she trusted Ned, besides, she knew enough about him to stop him doing more than a private tease...

The old lady’s thoughts were disturbed upon the sight that greeted her as she approached the Police station. A car drew up at great speed and two men jumped out and ran into the station.  Her past working in a similar field left her in no doubt that these were plain clothed policemen... so there really was a murder!

Goode felt ready to commit a murder. DS Althop and DC Sissons his young assistant had breezed in as though they owned the place. Dibble’s Uncle Cedric had obviously been busy and Goode could see Dibble being very busy. Yes, it had been a while since anyone had checked on shotgun licences and car tax, Oh, and MOT certificates! Oh yes, Dibble was going to be busy after all this went away!

“...Are you listening to me Sergeant Goode?”
“What? ...Yes, yes of course!”
“…about this murder. It is a most grave incident.”
“Murder?” Goode laughed, “It was an accident.”
“That’s not what we’ve heard.”
“P.C. Dibble, my impetuous young colleague, got excited and blew it all out of proportion.  I’ll deal severely with him when you’ve left.” Goode reassured Althop.
“Left? We’re not going anywhere, are we Sissons?”
“Er, no Sir!”
“Not until we’ve investigated this properly.” Althop declared theatrically. “So you don’t think there’s been a murder then Goode?”
“I see. Would you be a religious man, Goode?”
“Not particularly, but I don’t see...”
 “There is evil all around, Goode, sects!”
“Sects, S.E.C.T.S, Goode!”

Goode was extremely confused and amused, unable to stop himself laughing at this religious nutter spouting on. Quite what religious sects had to do with anything he didn’t know, but from the serious look on Althop’s face, there was no doubt he’d find

“Sects,  Goode. …a cancer on the flesh of society, the evil within. You wouldn’t know anything about local sects, would you?”
“Hmmm. Where would I find this fine young officer of yours?”
“Fine? ...Oh you mean Dibble? …at the scene of the accident cleaning up.”
“Cleaning up? Destroying evidence? Quick, man, tell me!” Althop yelled, “Where?!”
“Follow the lane into the village centre. In the Ferret and Duck.” Goode yelled after the two rapidly departing detectives. “Mind for those religious sects, they fair litter the place!”

Goode burst out laughing again as he shouted more directions after the two plain clothed bods from Great Yarbington, as they ran for their car.

From no-where appeared Miss Compton-Snort. One of her dogs tugging at Goode’s trouser leg.

“Stop that, Fifi! Did I hear something about sects?”
“Oh yes!  They’ll have the army here soon and none of us will be safe!”
The old lady suddenly went white.
“Are you all right?” Goode asked, slightly concerned that the silly old trouble maker was about to faint.
“Yes, yes, fine. I must leaf now...” and she staggered back toward the village.

This time Miss Compton-Snort would have to move on. Ned getting her drunk enough to boast about her past was one thing.  He could be bribed into keeping quiet, but the army?  They could get him to talk. She should know....


Back in 1943 things were quite different for Eva Compton-Snort, or Eva Wagner, as she was then known... and feared! Even her fellow Gestapo officers were left breathless by the cruelty of her methods, but it took a considerable natural talent to break into an area considered to be too rough for women. Women were supposed to provide babies and the next generation for the Third Reich!

But Eva, a particularly striking 22 years old, used her sensuality combined with a light-switch mood change during interrogations, a technique, which left even her hardened colleagues, amused. It had seen her promoted quickly, this caused some resentment but no-one could deny the effectiveness of her methods to extract information from any man, unlike Colonel Eric Hoffman, her senior officer.

“You are not helping yourself Captain Smithers, just tell me what I needs to know.”
“I really can’t help, old man.”
“Please, Captain... speak to me, you would raser speak to me!”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, old bean, and if I did, it just wouldn’t be right, you understand, don’t you?”
“Sadly I do, Captain Smithers, but couldn’t I beg you. I like you... old man... and would not like to see you suffer.”
“Oh, don’t worry... goes without saying, but I really don’t know anything, you see!”
“Very well sen, I’m sorry.”

Visibly saddened the Colonel left Captain Smithers. In spite of his stiff upper lip, Smithers was dreading what was to come. He was certainly not going to fall for the friendly Colonel.  The door to the interrogation slowly opened, Smithers gulped... and then... then a vision entered the room. Surely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. The uniform clung beautifully to her body, pinching her waist and following the curves of her hips faithfully, the tight skirt came just below her knees, but rode up as she sat on the table in front of him, giving Smithers a brief glimpse further up her stockings before she crossed those long... long, legs.

Although not giving away the fact, Eva was unusually attracted to this English pilot, she usually kept a handful of lovers dangling on a thread. A couple of fellow officers and an Italian, and she got certain sexual gratification from some of her interrogation techniques, of course, but emotions? Never! Yet here was a man hitting certain buttons without touching her.

She raised her skirt a little, which usually elicited some sort of reaction, and indeed there was a bead of sweat on the Captains forehead.
“You like legs, Captain?”
“Er... y ...yes ... Actually, something of a connoisseur.”
Eva smiled, “You like mine?” raising the skirt to show the stocking top and a teasing glimpse of a suspender strap.
“Yes... very, erm, nice... actually.” Smithers nodded.

Eva kicked off one of her shoes and pushed her foot between Smither’s legs to his bulging crotch. Then undoing a couple of shirt buttons she lent forwards, causing Smithers some additional sexual frustration.
“You want to please me, don’t you...?” Eva suggested.
“Oh, yes. Yes!” Smithers blurted lustfully.

The Colonel and his two colleagues observing from behind and above Smithers through an observation hatch turned to one another and smiled. This part of Eva’s routine made for one hell of a show, and she got off on having an audience, so much so that someone always became the recipient of her pent up sexual energy afterwards.

Smithers was straining at the leather straps shackling him to the chair. He’d never known such frustration... THE BITCH!
“Tell me where the allies will land.”
“S, sorry... I... can’t... oh!”
“Please... talk to me darling.”
“ I know... nothing... oh!”
“Oh, Darling!”

Eva took off her jacket and slowly removed her left foot from Smithers' crotch. Then, with a sudden look of fury on her face she aimed her right shoe where the left had been and kicked... hard! The
three observers winced in unison as the piercing scream rang out. Eva was on form today and broad smiles now crossed their faces. She was now slapping Smithers around the face with her leather gloves.
“Talk to me!” (slap ...)
“BITCH!” screamed Smithers.

The observers giggled like schoolboys.

The beating continued for another ten minutes. Enough time for the throbbing in his crotch to seem inconsequential by comparison. Then Eva changed tack yet again. She unbuttoned her shirt further and raised her skirt right up. Sitting astride him and pressing her crotch against his.

The observers looked puzzled, this was a new tactic they hadn’t seen before.
She put her arms around the struggling Smithers, holding his head to kiss him.
“Help me, Darling. Tell me what I need to know!”
“I... don’t... know anything.” Smithers insisted.

She tried to kiss him again and he bit her lip.
“Ach! Why do you fight me, I could be so goot to you.” Eva scolded him.
He swallowed hard as he felt her thighs grip tighter and her breasts press against him.  All he could manage was a whimper in reply.

Eva flew into a rage. Starting to get up, she buried her knee deep into his crotch again.
The observers smiled in relief as the scream rang out. For a minute, just a minute, they thought that Eva may have been getting too fond of this prisoner, but obviously she had a new tactic, a very impressive tactic.

Eva, of course, was fond of this prisoner. Annoyingly so, given that the situation was hopeless, but with no-one but Smithers to take it out on, his crotch became the victim. Eva stormed out of the interrogation room, the moans of her victim following her as she stormed down the corridor.

The youngest of the observers, Helmut, had rushed (with hope of sexual reward after Eva’s wonderful display of power that usually led to the need to relieve the passion) down the corridor towards Eva.
“You were wonderful Fraulein, wonder... ooof !!!!”

Eva did indeed relieve her pent up passion with a knee in Helmut’s groin - it worked briefly, but only momentarily improved her mood. Helmut’s mood wasn’t brilliant either.

Eva couldn’t get Smithers out of her mind. No-one had got to her this way and he was the bloody enemy! Over and over, it all turned around in her mind, but she had to see him again. There was just no escaping the fact, and he was no good to her where he was, she had to get him out of there. Blow her career, blow everything - she HAD to have that man!

The guards were confused. Eva had unusual methods, it was well known, but she rarely failed. Only once in fact, but how was she to know that particular English Major would get off on being whipped? Or that he’d get turned on even more by the male officer who replaced her? So they knew better than to question her now. If she wanted to stage a mock escape to demoralise this prisoner, then who were they to question.

Smithers was equally confused and suspicious. His groin was still sore and he was under the same impression as the guards - which didn’t help Eva at all!
“Come on, I am helpink you escape!” Eva whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, it’s a trick!” Smithers yelled hysterically.
“Oh God, we’ve no time for this!” She produced a pistol, “come on!”
“Just as I thought, you bitch!”
“Come on, quickly.”

The guards were easily convinced now, because the British officer was behaving in character with his situation. Eva was showing her usual tactical flare and they were in no doubt that Smithers would be back soon.

Colonel Hoffman, who hadn’t authorised this jaunt wasn’t so sure, and when Eva couldn’t be found his fears were confirmed. He knew there was something odd about her behaviour with this Englishman, but this madness was beyond anything he could have suspected. The guards were severely reprimanded and put on a charge, and orders were made that Eva Wagner was to be arrested and the Englishman shot on sight.

The Englishman was already confused. This crazy bitch was surely going to change, as she had before, and this so-called escape could yet turn into a trap, and he didn’t have to wait long.  Not of Eva’s doing, the army had tracked them down after finding her abandoned car, but with Smithers expecting Eva to deceive him, she found him doing the exact opposite of anything she asked. So when she told him to stay down, out of sight as the patrol came closer, his scrambled brain told him to stand up. What could be worse than anything this mad woman had in mind? The bullets splattering his body answered the question. “Shit!” was the last thing he uttered as his brain suddenly cleared to the reality of his situation.

Eva’s situation was all too clear. A traitor to her own side because she’d helped the Englishman escape and if she managed to reach Britain she would be the enemy there too!  In fact the only person who could have verified her story to the British had just been shot to pieces! Escaping the patrol by the skin of her teeth, Eva wandered for three days, making for the coast. Upon reaching an old fishing village she managed to persuade two men, partly by bribery and largely by sexual favours, to risk taking her to Britain in their small boat. Feeling sickened by the experience Eva left with her eager helpers at night to lessen the danger of discovery.

A few hours later they were off the South East Coast, near Hastings, somewhat appropriate in the circumstances, but this was an invasion party of one. Rain lashed down as she landed, pure luck helped her avoid a mined stretch of beach, and further luck led her to the little house on the cliff top - the residence of one Miss Compton-Snort, retired schoolteacher. A recluse who was about to become much more reclusive!

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